Anna Quinn - The Night Child

“He broke into your body and stole your sense of self. You knew something was wrong, you knew it felt horrible, but you also knew your father wouldn’t do anything horrible to you, so the obvious thing was to blame yourself. To think something was wrong with you and to doubt yourself. He took away your power to trust your own assessment, your own judgment.”

He broke into your body and stole your sense of self.

Large, cold hand curling tight around the skin of her throat. Heart beating as if she’s running hard. Now David’s voice calling her name and Carol’s voice saying, “Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Brown,” and she opens her eyes to see both of them standing above her stricken.

David putting his hand lightly on her upper arm. “It’s all right,” he says.

Carol smooths her bangs, holds a paper cup of water to her lips.

Nora sips the water. Something on Carol’s belt buzzes.

“You okay now, Mrs. Brown?”

Yes, Nora nods, and Carol leaves them there.

David strokes the back of her hand a bit longer and sits back down on his chair. For several moments, they sit quietly. “And yet,” he says as if nothing had just happened, as if he was going to say this no matter what, “and yet, you created Margaret. With your last little bit of power, you created her. You created her to feel in control—to feel safe. You did that. Even as a child, you found a way to keep yourself safe.”

She looks at the picture again. She had only gone where no one would find her.

“You are the child trying to heal right now—the child who is waiting for you,” he says, his voice fading then, sounding farther and farther away until she can hardly hear him at all, until she must close her eyes, until she is gone.

Margaret brings her hands up to her face, covers it. “Fiona’s safe?” she asks in an anxious whisper.

“Margaret?”

“Yes.”

He slides his chair away from her, which is very nice of him, but she will keep her hands over her face just in case.

“Yes,” he says. “I believe she is, but we will keep a close eye on her, and keep talking to her.”

“But what about the princess words Paul said?”

“Margaret, I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you. Do you think you could move your hands away from your face? I promise I will not move at all.”

“Promise—not even a bit?”

“I promise.”

She opens her hands slightly and makes just enough space for her words to get out. She will pretend to be brave. “But what about the princess words Paul said to Fiona?”

“Margaret, lots of daddies call their little girls princesses, but they don’t hurt them. It’s okay to say those words, it really is.”

She doesn’t know if this is true, but she will believe him because he has believed her.

“Margaret, do you know why Nora isn’t talking?”

“It’s not her job to tell the bad things.” Margaret closes her eyes and pushes away the scary feelings. “It’s my job. I did the bad things. She is the good one, and I’m the bad one.” She wipes her eyes. Begins to rock.

“Margaret. Listen. I’m going to keep telling you this until you believe me. You are not the bad one. Nora is not the bad one. Your father did the bad things. Very, very bad things. You and Nora are the good ones.”

Now she is rocking hard and crying hard and tears run down her arms into the sleeves of Nora’s sweater.

“May I give you a Kleenex?”

She nods her head, and through her talking space she hears him walk to the sink and pull a tissue from the box. She stops rocking and listens as he walks toward her, her heart beating hard in her ears. He stands right next to her. He will not hurt me. She watches as a tissue floats onto her lap. She waits until David is back in his chair. She grabs the Kleenex and presses it to her tears, trying to dry them without him seeing her face.

“I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.”

“What’s scaring you?”

“Valentine’s Day is in two days, and something really bad is going to happen. I know it. I just know it.”

“Margaret, you are safe. I promise nothing bad will happen. I would never let anyone hurt you or Nora.”

They are silent for a moment, Margaret shivering.

“Margaret, do you think you could help Nora to speak?

“H-h-how?”

“You’ve done so much work. You’ve helped so much, and you’ve been so brave. I wonder if you could let Nora be in charge for awhile—just rest a bit and let her take care of you? If you could trust her.”

Margaret is quiet. She tugs at her bangs with both hands. “Yes,” she says through her fingers. “I will trust Nora.” And then, slowly, Margaret opens her hands all the way and brings them to her lap. Folds them. Looks straight into David’s eyes.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she says. He will not hurt her. She will not be scared.

“Margaret,” he says, his voice catching. “I am proud of you.”

“Oh.”

“You have opened a door to where the secret was kept for a long time. You have let in the light. And I know at the deepest place in my heart, Nora will take good care of you and Fiona. You will never ever again have to do anything that hurts you. Ever. We will all keep you safe. I promise.”

She whispers, “You will call for me if you need me, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course we will. And Margaret?”

“What?”

“Paul is going to visit Nora soon. I’m asking you to let Nora take care of herself when he comes, okay? The nurse will be right outside the door. And I am only a phone call away. Can you do that?”

She nods her head up and down, vigorously.

“You have done an amazing job. You are just like St. Margaret in the story. You have slain the dragon with your sword.”

She is feeling proud. She will ask him a big question.

“Before I go, will you … will you … will you give me a goodnight kiss on my forehead?”

“Oh, Margaret, yes, of course.”

She wraps her arms around herself then, whispers goodbye, and closes her eyes.

David walks over, leans down, and kisses her on her forehead.

“Goodbye, brave Margaret. Sleep tight.”

Nora awakens in the middle of the night. She thinks about her last conversation with David—him saying Margaret agreed to let her be in charge. Nora closed her eyes after he’d said this, and in the midst of all her relief she felt an immense sense of loss.

She switches on the night-light, reaches for a glass of water. There is the photograph, leaning against the glass. She picks it up. Her father had taken this picture the day she’d received the Valentine’s dress from her grandmother. Taken the picture a week before he ruined the dress. Taken the picture when she’d been a good girl. And now—her father’s mouth, breathing heavy in her ear, whispering, “ If you tell you will be alone. All alone. No one will believe you. If you tell, no one will ever believe you .”

In her mind, suddenly, her own voice as a child:

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten …” Nora closes her eyes, and here is her six-year-old self in the classroom coat closet. The smell of wet boots and wool.

“Nora?”

It is Sister Rosa. “Nora, what are you doing here? You should be on the bus!”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten …”